Scramble.
One of these mornings, I take the time to scream and go crazy.
La Defense, Paris.
A book in hand, I make my way among the arms that push out the first of these underground tunnels. The metro beeps behind me then rushes into the dark implacable sidings.
sweat on his forehead. It is terribly hot here. People, enervated by confinement and the heat is launching a frenzy to exit gates. My brisk walk punctuated by the drums of my player that barely cover the hubbub of the morning discussions and not useless is incessantly interrupted by the untimely departures of people going in all directions.
end of the tunnel. Light. Finally.
Rain ... Fucking shit town.
top of the escalators still in repair, those poor guys who distribute free newspapers people read to be aware of what they have seen yesterday, when the figure contrite PPDA distilled them their dose beneficial information directly pumped into the RSS feed any website. "More Morning", "20 minutes", "Metro", evocative names. The new vectors the single thought and institutionalized ...
People who smoke outside. The logo that I know so well and spread in white letters on a blue background above the door that invites me again to go get warm in his frenetic and reassuring torpeur.Et go.
Hello to my temple guard insurance. Corridors lit by neon emetics. Lift. Bip. A guy who goes down first to the second. Basically, of course. And ugly, because he works for the same company as me. 7th floor.
My floor. The floor of every dream. With my PC. My connection to life. The rest. The universe. Before that, shaking sessions. "Machin Hello, hello Truc. Ah XXX is not there?" "No, it is moving." Mines agreed to use smiles.
Café. Rite reassuring. I take my glass of water, just to have something to do. And the day begins. Or rather, the day will pause until tonight. Pause.
0 comments:
Post a Comment